


Fingers

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Post ep for Rm9. NSFW.





	Fingers

It’s not that she’s forgotten the sensation. It’s just that she’s forgotten the feelings. She left them behind out of necessity, for preservation.

When she left, it was for a new start, a fresh slate. Somewhere clean and sterile. Somewhere she could control life. That’s what drew her to the house. It was so completely different to the place they shared that she could allow herself certain pleasures when she wanted to. Listening to her choice of music, watching documentaries that didn’t involve sporting statistics or alien life-forms. No clutter. Freedom to indulge in just being Dana.

In the diner, the warmth of the skin on his fingers sets off a reaction inside her. It wicks from the depths of her memory. Images of motel rooms, moth-eaten curtains, worn carpets, chipped furniture, the smell of burnt toast and stale coffee. Amongst the detritus of bizarre and brutal cases she plumbs her mind the for the nights spent grinding against him, uttering his name into the soggy pillow, tasting the salt-sweat of angry all-nighters on the inside of his elbows, taking the silk of his chest hair between her fingers in a rhythm that soothed away doubt and fear and disbelief. Sometimes, they fucked hard. Other times, they fucked gentle. Yet always the heel of his hand would knead the soft skin above her pubis and his artful fingers would plunge her into cunt to tease, to soothe, to beg forgiveness or to punish.

It’s not that she’s forgotten the sensation. It’s just that dredging up the feelings means accepting both ancient history and the recent past. Examining why she left. Why was it so easy in the end? What was it about her that allowed her to turn away from all that they’d shared and just leave it all behind in the stacks of books, in the dust on the shelves, in the chipped mugs and the stained hob? In the tears in his eyes? In the thousand messages on her old cell? In the phantom fingers massaging her until she cried out in pleasure-pain in the witching hour?

Now, in their home, the pressure of his hand is increasing and she lets her knees fall open. Cool air against her bare legs feels illicit. The sheet is tangled around their joined feet. His nose is pressed against her shoulder, his breathing noisy. She feels him so hard, straining. His wet lips nuzzle her neck and she can’t silence the guttural moan that builds as his fingers dip and curl. A distant part of her brain is expecting the quiet buzz that has frequently accompanied this sort of pleasure. But mostly, she’s focused on his handiwork. He’s a master. An artisan. A perfectionist.

There’s nothing that a lab or a computer or a bot could design that would ever match the way Fox Mulder’s fingers fit inside her, the way they seek her heat, her wetness, her rough spot. Her forgiveness.

It’s not that she’s forgotten the sensation. It’s just that until now she didn’t feel that she deserved it.


End file.
